


Once More, With Feeling

by QM_Vox



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Diplomacy, Dungeon, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Races, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Magic, Other, Racism, Resurrection, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QM_Vox/pseuds/QM_Vox
Summary: When their home is threatened, three would-be heroes raise a champion of legend for his advice, only to learn that he may have been, as it were......Damaged in shipping.But ah well - world still needs saving!Comments and critique welcome!
Kudos: 6





	Once More, With Feeling

The first thing thieves do in a siege is steal all the food. Accordingly, the drunk tank behind Sheriff Nonesdottir was currently bursting with the whopping _nine_ scofflaws and pickpockets that Tanner's Folly had managed to scrape together. Eleven more and someone might actually have to stand up instead of sitting on the bench looking surly.

The three young adults in front of the Sheriff, and not in the drunk tank, existed in a more annoying category of person, somewhere between noncombatant and militia member, known as 'pain in her ass'. And, like the aches and groans of waking up hung over in a barn, each one of them was a different and distinct pain in her ass. Oh, but to count the ways!

Misty Morrows! An idiot! And the worst kind of idiot too: a _smart_ one. Their bigshot wizard uncle (may he rest in peace) left Misty with a pile of books, and the young human'd only gone and sold their soul to a fucking demon at the first sign of trouble. They stood there with their arms crossed over their chest, with three different shadows in enough ambient light for approximately zero of them (Sheriff Nonesdottir liked her jail _lit_ ), with tiny nubs of horns newly growing from their forehead. The look on their face said 'talk shit, I want an excuse' but the Sheriff doubted the bluster highly, given how she'd found Misty last night. That kind of screaming and sobbing made the Big Bad Warlock act just the tiniest bit hollow.

Willow Whatshername (presumably the elf had an actual last name, and the Sheriff, who spoke Elvish, might even be able to pronounce it, but that would require Willow to actually _tell anyone what the fuck it was -_ ) was a different class of pain in the ass. Tanner's Folly, as a community, had nearly died out when the druid tending to the nearby forest had made his displeasure known to budding trappers and hunters. That the town had managed to trip over its own dick and fall directly onto a lucrative dye-manufacture industry did little to ease its historic and entirely unjustified resentment, and Willow was the apprentice of the man who'd saddled them with their name. Worse - 'worse' - she was just so gods-damned hard to hate. Willow trees might be old and mighty things, but Willow the druidess cried if you shouted at her, so the townsfolk quietly resented her behind her back and pitied her to her face. Sheriff Nonesdottir wondered what exactly Willow planned to accomplish in the face of the coming orcish threat. Weep at them?

And the last one -

\- was opening her mouth: "Just to be sure I'm mapping the tunnel we're walking here," Ruby Smithsdottir said dubiously, "you want us, instead of helping to shore up the walls or reassure the people or do anything useful, to hike our stone bones all the way out of town and into the hills. And then, when we're done literally heading for the hills, we're to find a legendary tomb that _definitely exists_ , and wake up a dead elf in there?"

"Dead half-elf," Nonesdottir corrected, because she knew it would piss Ruby off.

Ah, Ruby. Technically the two were kin by clan, but the good Sheriff's family had moved into Tanner's Folly along with a scattering of others from their dwarf-hold two generations ago. Ruby was definitely of the school that Sheriff Nonesdottir recognized from her grandmother's stories: serious, dedicated, and no fun at all. Ruby was a squire, but her master had graciously put her at the Sheriff's disposal, probably because _she_ knew it would piss the Sheriff off.

Family.

"We have an _entire_ elf right here," Ruby said, indicating Willow. The druidess tried and failed to spontaneously die where she stood. "If this legendary hero is such a sure shot then why did yon idiot not sign a pact with him?"

"I thought he was just a myth!" Misty snapped hotly. "But if the Sheriff thinks it's worth trying I'm for it. He's got an amazing reputation, if even a tenth of it is true..."

Nonesdottir sighed. "Let me make this simple, Ruby. By the authority vested in me by your mentor, I order you to lead the expedition to the Tomb of Many Deaths and wake who sleeps there. Leave within the hour."

Ruby glowered. "You ain't heard the last of this."

"Get in line behind the pickpockets and blow me, squire."

* * * *

"Lay off of Willow," Misty muttered, sotto voce, to Ruby as the three trudged through the hills. The map they'd been given was accurate, but it was not, as it were, _good_ , and in any event the footpaths through these hills were worse, so it was slow going. "She never did anything to you."

Ruby snorted but gave the warlock a curious look. "Caught you in that backswing too, human."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have to go and flash my ass at a demon. Though if you're offering, lay offa me too." Misty offered their hand out to Ruby to shake. "Solid?"

"We'll see." Ruby shook it. She scratched at her beard with her mittened hands; this lowland air was _not_ good for it. "Now, I swear I'm not taking a shot here, there a thing I'm supposed to call you besides your name?"

Misty peered at the dwarf and then comprehension hit the back of their eyes. They said a word in Dwarven.

" _Ahhh_ , that's what all the 'they' means. Here I'd thought you'd made trouble for Nonesdottir and she was being rude."

The youngblood warlock grinned. "No, no, we use 'fucker' and 'bastard' for that."

"Solid."

In the back of the group, Willow tried to act like she hadn't heard anything. This was easy enough; having to wince at every heavy footfall from the other two covered it up nicely. Ruby's heavy chain armor and hobnailed boots made noise enough but at least she moved like a soldier. Misty just _creaked_ in her new leathers. The sound would haunt Willow in her dreams for years to come, not for the sake of the dead cattle that had made the leather but for the sake of all the living animals having a no good very bad day running from these lumbering people.

Them talking about her like she wasn't there was also not great but Willow ignored this the same way she acted like she hadn't heard anything.

The druidess spotted the tomb first. The other two were now deeply immersed in the differences in human and dwarf gender expression; it took Willow three tries, whacking her quarterstaff against a rock, to get them to stop and look at her. Once they finally did she pointed with the length of oak.

"...I thought it would be bigger," Misty said after a moment.

The entrance to the tomb was a set of stairs, grown over with scrub, descending directly into a hill. All around the stairs were stones, carved in a rough hand with messages in many languages - Common, Dwarven, Elven, Halfling, Orcish, Goblin, Giant, and others the three didn't recognize on first blush. They all said the same thing: 'In case of emergency, break glass'.

Misty looked at Ruby. Ruby looked at Willow. Willow teared up like a toddler with a skinned knee, and then started marching towards the entrance to the tomb.

The dwarf stopped her by holding out a warhammer. "Let me," Ruby said in a soft voice. "If my master heard I'd let the squishies go in fronta me he'd beat my ass so bloody that my sainted ancestors' tailbones would snap in their cairns." Willow nodded in gratitude, and the squire led the way with heavy steps while Misty got a lantern lit so the others could follow into the darkness.

The stairs descended at a sharp angle, directly into the heart of the hill, and opened up into a singular chamber. Misty winced as ancient wards crackled over their skin, snuffing out all three of their shadows and making their horns itch like, well, devilry. All around the room were empty racks and display cases which must have once held weapons, items of power, maybe supplies; carved into the walls in that same plethora of languages was the message 'Take what you need, and pay it forward'. Now the only thing left was the body in the center of the room in its glass coffin, a half-elven man who would come up to Misty's chin if he was standing up, interred in the most battered and patched-up suit of elven mail any of them had ever seen. His hands still clutched the pommel of a longsword that was more nicks than blade. Three small amulets, almost dog tags really, rested around his neck, stamped with the symbols for air, earth, and fire.

"This the guy then?" Ruby asked, gently setting her hand on the coffin. "Why's his hair all white? He barely looks older than us."

Misty let out a small, awed breath, stepping up to set their own hand on the glass. "He came back that way the first time he died. He was boiled alive in a geyser, in White Plume Mountain. I can't believe the tomb's real. This is - this is Jade of the Many Deaths, the Martyr of the Mountain. He helped defend Hommlet against the Temple of Elemental Evil, he's killed vampires and dueled high priestesses of Lolth in single combat, I can't believe he's still _here_! It's been centuries!"

When Willow spoke up the other two startled; neither had heard her soft, shy voice before: "How'd he get here?"

Misty coughed. "He um. He set this tomb up with his adventuring money and then killed himself in it."

Ruby stared.

Willow stared.

"He wanted to be able to come back if someone needed him! You can't do that when you die of old age!"

"Misty," Ruby began slowly. "That's insane."

" _Break the fucking glass will you?_ "

Ruby motioned the other two back. When they were clear, the squire stepped back herself, planted her feet, and _swung_ her hammer in a clean arc. It hit the glass coffin and bounced off hard enough to throw the dwarf back on her ass, but the blow had done its job. The glass spiderwebbed with cracks that spread with unnatural speed even as the inside of the coffin filled with light.

When the blinding light faded the coffin was gone, and the body within it was sitting up and taking deep, steady breaths.

"Anyone kill Iuz yet?" he asked, his voice rough and scratchy.

Ruby and Willow both looked at Misty, who cleared their throat. "Iuz the Old One is a g-god, sir, you can't just kill gods."

"Like hell you can't, but fair enough." The body slipped off of the stone dais on which he was sitting, landing roughly on his feet; he held himself up against the rock, still taking those deep, steady breaths. "Pelor preserve but I haven't been alive in awhile. Okay. What's the trouble?"

"...Just like that, sir?" Misty asked. "Right to business?"

"You in the habit of hauling people out of their peaceful afterlife for a lark..." he peered and then guessed, "wizard?"

"Warlock."

"Yeah let's put a pin in that, question stands."

Ruby sighed and picked herself up. "There's an orcish horde on its way and the people of Tanner's Folly seem to think you might be able to stop them from killing everything that moves. Can you do that or not?"

The Manydeaths gave Ruby a smile full of confidence but lower on teeth than he would have liked. "Orcs're easy. Come on, we need to go get some embroidery supplies. Hop to it."

The three youngbloods stared as the man they'd brought back from the dead staggered heavily past them and up the stairs to his tomb.

Silence reigned once he'd made it out.

"Did that dead bitch say _embroidery_?" Misty snapped.

* * * *

Jade Manydeaths, as it turns out, could sew, embroider, and tailor. Not _well_ , necessarily, but more than not at all; he and Willow sat around a black flag at a table in the common room of Tanner's Folly's only inn, patiently sewing a white vulture skull into its center. They were nearly done.

Misty was livid.

"Are we seriously going to just walk right into the orcs' camp?" they hissed at Ruby.

"You were the one all horny for this guy," Ruby answered in a sanguine tone. "I for one am interested to see how this goes."

Misty stamped their foot, their shadows cavorting angrily against the walls. "Who ever heard of defeating orcs with diplomacy? This is, it's, the very idea -"

Ruby planted the head of her warhammer on the floor and leaned against the handle. "My people regularly defeat orcs with diplomacy or, as sane people call it, negotiate with our neighbors. You hate orcs that much or are you just mad that if this works you sold your soul for nothing?"

"That - _what if I am_?"

The Manydeaths whistled from the table, making the two look over at him. "Misty, help me out here. What's a warlock? What can you do?"

Misty cleared their throat and looked to Ruby, who pointedly looked away. No help there, fine. They cleared their throat again. "I um. Gained magical power through a pact. With a demon. I can blow things up and kill people, mainly, I don't have a whole lot of power yet."

Jade stared, then shrugged and turned his eyes back to the embroidery. "Sounds like the market's upgraded since my day. You have to do anything specific for this demon?"

"Not...yet...wait, upgraded? What did you get for selling your soul back in your day?"

"Invaded, mainly."

 _Oh_.

"We're gonna need you if this goes sideways but please, I beg you, try not to kill anyone unless I give the signal," the Manydeaths continued. "This is going to be pretty tricky as it is. I know what Ruby's deal is, and Willow seems to be a fine student of an ancient druidic tradition, but I've got nothing on you. I'm gonna have to trust your best judgement."

Misty squirmed in place and finally looked away. "And if I don't? Trust my best judgement, that is."

Jade stood from his table with a shrug. "Learn fast. Let's go."

* * * *

Braush woke at sunset and made his prayers. Not long ago, the young orc had been chosen by Gruumsh as a mighty champion, a priest imbued with Gruumsh's own power, and the feeling of power and connection he felt as he venerated the god of his people was palpable. Camp was already being broken to march, and the Broken Tusk Tribe would be on the move within the hour.

Which made it more curious that someone was waiting behind Braush when he completed his prayers. "What news?" the apprentice cleric asked of the scout, once his prayers had concluded.

"A delegation of the proud races," the scout answered. "They are flying a flag of truce." She paused. "The vulture's skull, champion."

Braush did not bother to mask his astonishment. "Bring them into camp and promise them safe passage. They've clearly earned that much."

It was a big decision, but Braush trusted that Guura, leader of this war-party, would both understand and agree. Flags of truce were sacred, as they must be, but these strangers had gone to the effort to fly an _orcish_ flag of truce, and that merited curiosity. The apprentice cleric donned his armor with care and then, hefting his great axe, went to meet Guura in her tent.

"Warpriest," the raid leader greeted Braush, inclining her head. Braush gave her a deeper bow, as was her right. "Our guests are being escorted to us even now."

Braush nodded and took his place at her side.

The delegation of the proud were - well, Braush finally admitted, strange. The dwarf was about what he had come to expect from their young warriors, clad in thick mail and coated in cloth, carrying a mighty hammer. She seemed proud and ready, and met his gaze without hesitation. Beside her, and holding the flag of truce, was a half-elf who looked young and old at the same time, his equipment shockingly patched-up and shabby. He shook but not, Braush thought, out of fear; he had the look that warriors sometimes had after they had recovered from a great illness.

In the back of the group was an elf, who shrunk behind the dwarven warrior and hid her eyes, clutching at her quarterstaff. Next to her, and seeming much more annoyed, was a tief-no, no wait. A _human_ , marked with some bargain with the Lower Planes. Who were they?

The half-elf surprised all present by sinking to one knee, his hand still holding the flag of truce high, and speaking in clear, if accented, Orcish: "Glory to the Broken Tusk, and the eternal favor of the One-Eyed God. Thank you for electing to speak with me, war-leader."

Braush observed the others. The dwarf was following along, but the other two were lost. He snorted. Humans and elves never gave his people their due, and they always acted so very shocked when they died for it.

"Rise," Guura commanded. "Who are you, who seeks to treat with the Broken Tusk?"

The half-elf stood, not brushing himself off. More and more, he had Braush's interest. "My mother named me Jade, the stone which repels evil. The proud races call me the Manydeaths. It has been many years, but the Burning Boar tribe called me Groi, the Little Bee, for my role in the Giants' March of times past. The people of Tanner's Folly have raised me from death to prevent your destruction of their home."

To her credit, Guura did not react to this statement other than to look at Braush. The young priest picked his jaw up off the floor. "He does match the - there is indeed such a warrior spoken of, war-leader. An elfling brat serving as the herald to a mighty paladin, who earned distinction in the slaying of many hill giants with arms and sorcery. But he should be long dead."

"I was," the half-elf agreed. "And now I have returned to ask what the Broken Tusk would ask for peace. You are far from your ancestral lands and I cannot help but feel some terrible fate has driven such proud warriors all this way."

Guura considered this for a long while. None dared to interrupt her. Finally, she made a gesture; her underlings scurried away, some barking orders to cease the breaking of camp, others coming back with supplies - a rough wooden table, a series of maps, and bulging skins of alcoholic warmash. At her invitation, Braush and the delegation of the proud seated themselves around the table.

Well, mostly. The elfling continued to hide behind the dwarven warrior, shaking like a leaf.

When Guura spoke again she chose Common, no doubt to include all of her guests in the conversation. "You ask what we need? You say you can sense a terrible fate which stalks us? Very well, Groi. It has been three and three generations since last humans showed us the respect to negotiate with the Broken Tusk. You sit now at my table, and you hold now my warmash. Let us drink, and then I will tell you the tale, and see what peace means to the ancient."

The whitemaned man nodded. He and his companions each took a skin of the warmash, and as one those settled around the table drank. The flavor was sour enough to sting; the elfling coughed and sputtered, her face red with agony, and even the dwarf had faint tears in her eyes from the acidic bite. Guura nodded; it was good.

"As you say, we are far from our ancestral lands. The Broken Tusk have contended with the demonic hordes of Iuz the Old One, with colonies from the Free City and beyond, and with magic and mayhem aplenty in our time. But now the very life leaks from our land. Our livestock cannot eat the poison which grows from there, and night burns near as bright as day. Our high priest has gone on a great pilgrimage to gain wisdom from Gruumsh on what afflicts us, but in the meantime if we do not eat, we will die. Worse, the earth vomits forth its dead, and they come south. They will be here before autumn, and we need high walls and supplies to outlast them."

The Manydeaths nodded. "Tanner's Folly is small enough for you to overwhelm, and sturdy enough to be shored up. There are worse defensive positions, especially with the option of retreat along the river for your children and mothers."

"Even so," Guura agreed. She and Braush watched in polite astonishment as their guest voluntarily took another drink of the warmash, but the war-leader kept her composure. "Our lives are on the line. Who knows how long it might be before our lands are healthy again, to say nothing of the hard journey back? We cannot simply leave empty-handed."

"What if you moved in and lived in Tanner's Folly?" the half-elf proposed openly. "No one's so lucky that this army only comes for the Broken Tusk. The people of Tanner's Rest can help feed and shelter your warriors and maybe even get help ahead of time while these adventurers and I investigate the source."

"Excuse me?" the dwarf said from next to him.

"I want to," the elfling said in a voice smaller and more frail than a baby bird's. "If the land is sick..."

The not-tiefling rested her cheek on her knuckles. "I could stand to get out of the house. I don't really need to stick around for everyone's weird looks."

"I cannot just walk out without my master's say-so," the dwarf declared in a hot voice. "Do not voluntell me, Manydeaths."

He gave her a long look. "If he says yes, do you want to go?"

Silence. Then: "Aye."

"Alright then." He turned his attention back to Guura. "I am willing to mediate this peace and to lead the expedition to revenge you on your hidden persecutor. Will the Broken Tusk die shoulder-to-shoulder with Tanner's Folly as friends?"

Guura's fingers drummed on the handle of her axe. "We will not be pack mules or mere laborers. We die as their equals or their enemies. Nothing less."

"Of course."

"And, if negotiations go through, you will take Braush with you to represent us."

Braush blinked once but did not object. It made sense. Now they would see -

"Done." Groi offered his hand out to Braush in the human fashion. "I look forward to working with you, priest of Gruumsh."

The young cleric blinked once. Twice. A third time. And then he shook the gloved hand before him, clasping the dead man's hand firmly. "And I you, Little Bee. You are not what I expected."

"I usually am not. War-leader, is there a token of your troth I can carry into Tanner's Folly..."

The two bent their heads together, discussing initial sets of actionable demands and promises, and Braush resumed watching the rest of the Manydeaths' group, secure in the warm glow of his war-leader's regard for his talents and judgement. His interest in these others let him catch, many minutes later, when the fiend-touched human leaned in to murmur in the dwarf's ear.

"Hold up," she said, not softly enough. "Did that dead bitch say _Gruumsh_?"


End file.
